


It's not just about hockey

by strive2bhappy



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:44:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1323700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/strive2bhappy/pseuds/strive2bhappy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p> Dean doesn't have a thing. He doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's not just about hockey

  
so the olympics are long over, but there was a prompt over at [](http://deirdre-c.livejournal.com/profile)[**deirdre_c**](http://deirdre-c.livejournal.com/) 's awesome [Winter Olympics Porn comment meme](http://deirdre-c.livejournal.com/518391.html#comments) that caught my attention and i figured i'd have a go.

i'm afraid it might be a little off the prompt and has little to nothing to do with the olympics and is essentially just porn for porn's sake and is full of a metric ton of run-on sentences (a lot like this one) and i've ignored current canon because, well, ouch, but a tiny bit may have crept in there, and i just wanted sam and dean and sexy times and fun and this is what happened.

also, sam in a hockey jersey.

here's the prompt:

It's no secret than Dean loves cowboys, it's even fair to say he has a fetish, but Sam had no idea that a hockey jersey would drive him crazy like that. Dean won't let him remove it during sex.

Title: It's not just about hockey  
Pairing: Sam/Dean  
Rating: NC17  
Word count: ~5600  
Warnings: a little bit of dirty talk, bottom!dean  
Summary:  Dean doesn't have a thing. He doesn't.

 

 

 

Dean doesn’t have a thing. He doesn’t. Really. It’s not like he can’t get off on other stuff — and he wouldn’t even say hockey would be his go-to with the Olympics.

But.

It’s.

He doesn’t even know where Sam got it. This huge — _Christ, it’s big on him_ — hockey jersey that’s three different colors or something. Shit, Dean’s not even sure what team it represents, he only knows that when Sam walks into the library of the bunker with the damn thing on, Dean stops.

Literally everything.

Stops reading, stops breathing, hell, his heart probably even stops for a second or two.

And it’s dumb because Sam’s wearing jeans and this fucking jersey and really, it’s not that hot — _it’s not_ — but it’s Sam and the damn thing is big on him and that’s saying something because Dean’s brother is a fucking giant when it comes to clothes — he’s been tough to dress since he’s been about sixteen — and the fact that Dean can’t even see Sam’s _hips_ says a lot right now.

Dean swallows and watches Sam shuffle in on stocking feet to a shelf of books and Dean doesn’t make a noise — _he doesn’t_ — but Sam turns anyway, only a little, to look at Dean out of the corner of his eye.

Dean stills, pretty much completely, and pretends to read what’s in front of him, even though the words are total gibberish. He takes what he hopes are quiet, calm breaths and relaxes a little when Sam turns back to the volumes that commanded his attention in the first place.

Shit, what the serious fuck? Dean can’t really get a handle on it. It’s just — the jersey, it’s big, like he noticed before, and it swamps, literally swamps Sam’s body — and how the hell is any of that hot, really? — and all Dean wants to do is tell Sam to kick out of his jeans and boxer briefs so Dean can maybe — _only maybe_ — get glimpses of his soft cock under the hem of the polyester material, and it’s…kind of weird, while at the same time ridiculously sexy.

The craziest thing is Dean’s still marginally tender from last night when Sam fucked him into the mattress until the memory foam remembered them both. It’s nothing overt, nothing painful -- in fact, he feels a little empty, a little needy, maybe even gaping slightly because he's been thinking about it -- his ass is still warm and tingles a little from the phantom sensation of Sam’s dick.

He'd be worried with how horny he’s been of late, but having the bunker -- safe from pretty much anyone and anything -- and his brother next to him is just…yeah.

And the freakin’ jersey gives him this sudden fantasy, where he’s some lackey, some newbie in the locker room, in charge of getting equipment together or something stupid like that and Sam — Jesus, Sam — is a professional hockey player that just came off a great game and is high on adrenaline and sweat and fucking joy and Dean just caves — gives him everything — and takes it willingly, deeply, completely and shit, that’s fucked up — _shit, that’s fucked up_ — but it’s that insane, goddamn jersey.

“You okay?”

Dean jerks so hard at the sound of his brother’s voice, the book in his hand drops to the floor with an incriminating noise, drawing Sam’s attention more than Dean would have wanted, so much so that Sam moves over the where Dean’s sitting and Dean has to pop a knee up so his half-hard dick isn’t — hopefully — as obvious.

“Seriously,” and Sam kind of hovers over him, totally adding to the fantasy in Dean's head — _big fucking hockey player_. “What’s up?”

Part of Dean wants to quip about what’s _really_ up and part of him knows damn well he’s in serious trouble if he makes eye contact with his brother. The decision is taken away from him when Sam scritches three or four fingers down the back of Dean’s neck, catching the base of his skull and the top of his spine, and Dean reacts as a fireball of sensation shimmies practically to his tailbone and he lifts his chin and he knows — he _knows_ — when Sam’s eyes go dark that he’s caught.

“Yeah?” Sam whispers around a grin that's just about ready to topple over into dirty, and his tone breathes amazement and disbelief and arousal all in one. "You wanna go again?"

Dean should explain -- he'd like to -- but the truth is he’s really not sure himself what the hell is going on, he just knows there's a thrum in his body, his veins, his dick, and for the first time in a long time there's nothing really keeping him from trying out every available surface in the bunker and if the look on Sam's face is anything to go by, he's likely on board with all of it, too, and Dean wants to blame it on the fucking jersey, but it's more than likely his brother and this thing that's been between them practically for longer than Dean can remember and he has a feeling all of that, somehow, gets conveyed to Sam because he leans down, connecting their mouths and Dean can't fucking help it -- the most pathetic, involuntary whimper bleeds from his lips to Sam's.

Sam pulls away only far enough to murmur, "nice," before crouching even further into Dean's space, wrapping one of his big palms around the back of Dean's neck while his other hand slides from Dean's t-shirt to his jeans to play with and measure the length of Dean's rapidly hardening cock and it's amazing, that he can have this, that they're both okay with it and accepting of it and _want_ it and suddenly, the demands of his body turn to a visceral need, clawing to make that connection, get his brother inside him and he responds with a surge upward, not completely out of the chair, but still closer against Sam, claiming Sam's mouth and a fistful of hair.

They battle for a bit -- tongues, lips and teeth -- and Dean wants to push up, rub his suddenly hypersensitive body along Sam's, feel what's waiting for him behind the hem of the jersey and zipper of the jeans, but Sam holds him down in the chair, using both hands to hang onto Dean's chin, sucking on his lips -- alternating top and bottom -- and Dean whines a little, struggles in his brothers grip, but Sam won't be deterred, maintains the connection and drag of the kiss and the minutes get away from Dean -- he's not sure how long they remain there, doing nothing but eating at each other's mouths, until Sam pulls back, breathes deep and whispers, "Wanna go to the room?"

Dean blinks a little, almost lost to where he even is, shakes his head to clear it, brushing their swollen, wet lips together in the process. "Here," he murmurs, voice more than a little raw.

Sam half hums, half growls and bites Dean again, so lightly it sends an unusually bright frisson of sensation from Dean's mouth to his nipples to his groin and he can feel his boxer briefs get wet with precome and he wants his clothes off _now_ so he tries one more time to push up against his brother to move this process along.

Sam chuckles and maintains his grip, clearly in no hurry to acquiesce to Dean's silent wishes, licks out three little flicks against Dean's front teeth, unravels Dean's fist from his hair, and says, "Stay here."

Dean's not proud of it, but his lips involuntarily follow Sam's when his brother pulls back. It takes three or four blinks for Dean to realize what Sam's doing and he doesn't want Sam to take the damn jersey off because the thought of having Sam fuck him while still wearing it suddenly appeals more than he ever imagined it would and he chokes, "D-don't..."

Sam's smile is one of easy affection and he leans back to brush their noses together and explain, "I wanna get the stuff," and Dean knows he should hate the ridiculousness of the move and Sam's obviously tender expression, but he can't deny the warmth it brings to his chest.

Still, when Sam kisses Dean's forehead and steps back, Dean stops him with a tight grip on the hem of the jersey and hesitant eye contact. "Just, d-don't...take this off..."

Sam's brow scrunches in that stupid look he gets when something surprises and confuses him at the same time. "You’re serious? Do you even watch hockey?"

Dean lowers his gaze to the floor and drops the material quicker than he would a lit match he'd let burn for too long. Part of him wants to just laugh it off or quip a surly, _yeah, I'm serious_ , but there's something, some undefinable, uncertain vulnerability, some whispered voice in the back of his mind that tells him things aren't as settled here as they should be and he needs to tread lightly -- watch his step -- and he can't shake the feeling, so he just stops.

It was a lame idea anyway.

He should have just said yes to going to his room.

He opens his mouth to take it back, steer this whole thing down a different path, but Sam's back up in his space, hovering over him, kicking his legs open and stepping between them and his voice -- his voice is almost like nothing Dean's heard from his brother before, rich and confident and _sure_.

"You wanna get fucked by a hockey player, Dean?" Sam practically purrs as he pushes Dean's head back, forcing him to make eye contact. "Hmmmm? Want me to just take what I want?"

And just like that, Dean's heartbeat ratchets higher and his balls pull up just a bit -- reminding him they're still full and heavy -- and control is taken from Dean, and it's bizarre because it's all playing out _exactly_ like it did in his head just minutes ago and he whimpers loud and his jaw has already fallen open and Sam mouths the words against Dean's bottom lip. "Wanna pretend I'm some hockey player?"

Going primarily on sensation, Dean knows instinctively that's wrong -- the sentiment, the idea, all of it -- and he shakes his head, rubbing their noses together almost like before but so vastly different. "Huh uh," he whispers. "Want it to be y-you, Sammy. Always want it to be you."

At that, Sam's smile is back, curling around the power in his expression and he kisses Dean for a full ten seconds before asking, "So, I'm the hockey player then?"

And, shit, at this point, Dean doesn't fucking care who is what, he just wants his brother's dick in his ass yesterday, and instead of replying, he goes back in for another kiss, but is stopped by the grip Sam's got on his jaw. It's difficult, but he lifts his eyes to his brother's face and Sam again asks, "Is that what you want?"

Dean nods and he thinks he says _yes_ , but the sound isn't right for his throat -- it's soft and unresistant and accommodating -- and seems to fuel Sam's sudden caveman act even farther because he murmurs, _then get up here_ and scoops Dean up -- literally bends over, somehow squeezes his big, wide palms between Dean's ass and the seat of the chair, and lifts -- and fuck all, Dean loves that his brother can do this, _can actually pick him up_ , because it's an incredibly novel sensation for Dean to be off the floor and suspended from nothing more than Sam's muscles -- not many people in his life could manage it.

Dean sucks in a sharp breath and wraps his arms around Sam's neck as he's placed on the very table he’d been sitting in front of, Sam slotted perfectly between his thighs.

Dean pulls with his arms and legs, rubbing them both together from neck to groin and Sam's chuckle shoots electricity down Dean's spine.

"Stay put," Sam commands as he extricates himself from Dean's hold and heads down the hallway.

Dean can feel his heartbeat in his cock and fingertips and his breath is ragged in response. He deliberately thinks of nothing as he keeps his eyes on the doorway and waits for his brother.

When Sam reappears, Dean makes a heavy-sounding noise from deep in his chest at the sight. Sam's still wearing the jersey, but nothing else, and he's moving toward the table with an almost feline grace that Dean didn't know Sam could convey, but the amazing thing, the breath-stealing, mouth-watering part of the whole picture is the fact that Sam's cock is hard and wet with lube and he's stroking it slowly, and the hem of the jersey is draped around the thick, red length, and Sam's thumb catches in the material on each downstroke, and Dean's legs part automatically just from seeing all that walk toward him.

It takes a couple seconds and a few wide strides from Sam before the rest of Dean's body catches up with his libido and he's scrambling to kick off his jeans and socks and his dick springs up, precome giving the sensitive skin a sheen, and it's slutty -- Christ, he knows it's fucking slutty as hell, but he sincerely can't _help it_ \-- when he leans back on the table, naked from the waist down, propped up on his elbows so he can still watch Sam's approach, and just spreads his legs in blatant, wanton invitation.

Sam’s step falters for maybe half a second and his eyes flutter like he touched a live wire, but it doesn’t stop him from walking right up to the table and grazing the wet tip of his cock up and down the cleft of Dean’s ass and it’s so much, but not nearly enough, of exactly what Dean wants that he pushes his hips up to get even a fraction of an inch more.

Dean can actually feel the rim of his hole flex just around the slit of Sam's dick, and it's a goddamn tease and his brother knows it because in this position, Dean can't get the necessary leverage to just take what he wants. It sure as hell doesn't help matters when Sam uses his free hand to restrain Dean's hips against the table -- it shoots fireworks from Dean's balls to the tip of his cock because of the restriction, but it's not really a help to his current need to be speared on his brother's dick.

"So," Sam says, nonchalant tone still deep enough to register in the pit of Dean's stomach. "Tell me where you are."

Dean squirms. Shit, he probably shouldn't have given Sam that bit of a hint into his fantasies. "Sammy, come on..."

Sam shakes his head. "I kind of like this whole story you've got going here," Sam murmurs, while still moving his cock up and down, closer and farther, in random, wet, swirling patterns all along Dean's ass. "Tell me..."

It's partly the soft command and partly the fact that Sam slides his fingers from the juncture of Dean's thigh and torso, up under the t-shirt he's still got on, to the soft, sensitive skin of his stomach and scrapes just the pad of his thumb over Dean's right nipple -- and damn his brother for knowing exactly what buttons to push -- that Dean grunts, "locker room."

And with Sam swamped in that fucking jersey, it could be true.

"Yeah?" Sam breathes. "What do you do?"

Dean lets his head fall back, even though he's still up on his elbows, because it pushes his chest out and trips the most amazing buzz from his tight nipple to his balls and back. It takes him a while to answer and Sam, in the meantime, has moved across Dean's chest, shoving his t-shirt even higher, peaking Dean’s left nipple between thumb and forefinger.

Sam prods with his words and wet dick. "C'mon, Dean. I wanna know..."

The sound Dean makes is a garbled mess and he opens his legs even wider -- mostly because he can't see himself with his head dropped between his shoulders -- and the motion tugs the muscles in his groin and he feels exposed, but it's really just hot because he wants fucked  so bad and any sense of shame is mixed up with a lot of physical hunger and the craving outweighs the mortification he probably should feel at the position he's put himself in and Sam, _jesusfuck_ , Sam just moves his hand down to play in the puddle of precome gathering on Dean's stomach like it's there for him to take his time with and measure and spread around.

"Sh-shit," Dean gasps, the tickling feel of Sam's fingers so fucking close to his dick making him lose the ability to breathe for a second.

When Dean lifts his head, Sam's smile is pure wolf as he cups Dean's cock in his palm, slotting his thumb right under the slit, letting the precome collect there just so he can smear it all around the head and it's incendiary because they're both watching and it's almost like a feedback loop and everything's getting fucking _wet_ and Dean can practically smell it and he can't stop the strong jolts of his hips and _shit shit shit shit_ it's like a kaleidoscope of sensation from the underside of his cock all the way to his fingers.

And it all stops as abruptly as it started when Sam steps back, only a scant inch or two, and whispers, "I can see if I want a clear answer outta you, I gotta let up," and when the skin on skin connection is gone -- everywhere -- it's enough to make Dean whine low in his throat at the loss.

Thankfully, Sam reaches for the lube he brought with him -- has to shake the sleeve of the jersey out of the way to bare his palm -- and Dean just about melts at the whole picture and the knowledge that the show's really gonna get started now and he kicks his heels up on the table and separates his knees as far apart as he can get them and his cock blurts another streak of precome onto the mess on his belly.

Sam makes a show out of pouring the clear, viscous liquid onto his fingers and damned if Dean's ass doesn't clench around air just at the sight. A corner of Sam's mouth quirks and he says, "You gonna tell me what you do, being in the locker room all by yourself?"

Dean lets his elbows slip out from under him and he lands flat on his back on the table, arms stretched out on the decades-old wood and eyeline on the ceiling.

"Don't you kind of want to tell me, Dean?" Sam asks with a feather-light kiss to Dean's knee.

Deans eyes fall closed and he whispers, "M'just some dumb kid."

A low, encouraging sound ripples out of Sam.

"Managing equipment or something," Dean continues quietly.

"And me?" Sam asks.

"You're..." Dean huffs a sharp breath. "You're this fucking amazing hockey player and you..."

Sam's dry hand snakes down the inside of Dean's thigh and Dean’s trembling reaction shivers all the way to his chin.

"I what?" Sam murmurs.

"You just..." and the fantasy is really starting to take shape in Dean's head, especially with the image of Sam in the jersey pretty much superimposed on Dean's eyelids, and it's almost like he's there, spread out on a bench in a locker room somewhere, just waiting..."you had this great game and you want..."

"To fuck someone?" Sam replies offhandedly as he pushes two, well-lubed fingers deep into Dean's ass in one go.

Dean's quite literally unable to reply as a heavy starburst of pleasure barrels up his chest and he mewls _Sammy_ through clenched teeth while his hips writhe on the table.

Sam leans forward, lines himself up between Dean's split-open legs and they both make a noise when their cocks slide together, almost getting tangled up in Sam's jersey -- and fuck if Dean doesn't get just a hint of the fabric brushing his balls and the feel of it makes him almost choke on a breath.

"So," Sam whispers, lips lightly grazing Dean's chin. "Did you see the game?"

Dean shakes his head somewhat spastically, but the feel of Sam's thick fingers deliberately spearing and separating the tender flesh of his ass, obviously making room for what's to come, just feeds the suddenly voracious hunger and need and damn it, Dean doesn't want to play anymore. "Ah, God, Sammy, you gotta fuck me," Dean begs, totally gone on this whole thing. 

"Did you see the game-winning goal I scored?" The question is asked around Sam's teeth as he bites behind Dean's ear and Dean practically fuses into the table when he realizes this is going to go exactly as fast or slow as Sam wants it and nothing he says will change that, so Dean does what he's been thinking about since he first saw his brother in the damn jersey -- he lies back and takes whatever he's given.

Sam jabs right up against Dean's prostate and asks again, "Did you?"

Dean curls his fingers into fists on the table as an almost vicious heat vibrates from deep inside his stomach and he chokes out, "Yeah, I s-saw it…"

“Was for you, baby,” Sam murmurs just before he sucks Dean’s earlobe into his mouth.

Dean twists against the wood, baring his neck to his brother, wholly caught not only in the story Sam’s weaving, but in the endless barrage of sensation curling through his body. He rides Sam’s fingers as much as he can, rolling his hips in irregular circles, butting up against Sam’s cock and the slick fabric of the jersey, wild sounds wrenching from his throat.

“S-Sammy,” Dean whimpers. “Please…”

Sam pulls off Dean’s earlobe with a wet pop, stands back a little and glances to where his fingers are still plunging, stretching, pushing. “Want me to fuck you?”

Dean wraps his feet around his brother’s waist, reaches up to grab double fistfuls of the jersey and hisses _yes yes yes yes yes yes yes_ on a loop until Sam extracts his fingers and sinks his hard, thick cock deep in Dean’s ass.

 _Shit, it feels so fucking good_.

Every time Sam bottoms out inside him, Dean flushes hot and out-of-control and his blood blazes in his veins and his cheeks and the tips of his ears burn and he’s so full, it’s almost overwhelming.

He pants, gulping air for a second or two before Sam starts moving and _Christ,_ Dean never gets much time to adjust and he doesn’t fucking want it — he doesn’t — because this certainty, this _claiming_ is what he craves, but it always verges on almost too much — he doesn’t know what to do with it all, the feeling and the swelling and the voracity and the rightness and inevitability of it and he pulls so hard on the jersey, the neck slips over one of Sam’s shoulders and that shouldn’t make this all that much more amazing, but fuck if it doesn’t, and Dean’s a squirming, mewling, unintelligible mess and Sam’s just rocking an inch in and an inch out, back and forth and Dean can feel sweat gather under his arms, making his t-shirt wet and uncomfortable and his toes curl and he breathes and capitulates to whatever rhythm Sam sets.

And he knows he could stay exactly where he is, stretched out, ass up on a table for the rest of his life and never want for anything else.

Sam grunts, reaches behind himself to grab Dean’s right ankle and unwrap it from Sam’s waist. “You worry at all about the other players seeing you like this?”

Dean gasps at the question, even as he remains pliable and compliant around the galloping of his heart and heavy beat in his cock and he can’t help the ragged noise he makes when Sam ducks under Dean’s leg and shoves him over on his side — all while his cock stays buried deep in Dean’s ass.

“Think this is what the coach meant by managing equipment?” Sam’s voice is so, so casual as Dean’s thighs are pushed together, almost trapping his balls, and his upper body goes with the turning and Dean has to let go of the jersey when his right shoulder comes up a little off the table.

“Shit,” Dean hisses, the sound sibilant and prolonged and the new angle makes Sam’s dick feel like a baseball bat and damed if his brother doesn’t pull almost all the way out, just to drive right back in again. Over and over and over and Dean’s eyes start to tear up and he can’t catch his breath and the heat and the friction in his ass practically pulsing around Sam’s cock as his brother whispers, “Maybe you want them to see, though, huh?”

Dean closes his eyes and he’s there — on a bench in a locker room, stuffed full of cock and there’s the threat of anyone walking in and seeing this, seeing him, hearing the slurpy, wet sounds coming from his ass.

“What do you think they’d say, Dean, if they could see you gagging for it like this, huh?” Sam whispers as he leans forward, shifting half along Dean’s shoulder and half on his chest and Dean tilts his hips as much as he can to take the continued thrusts of Sam’s cock and Sam grunts, “Yeah, that’s right. You fucking love this.”

Dean skates his hand up under the jersey, Sam’s back soaked with sweat, and manages to dig through the material until he can comb through Sam’s damp hair, Dean’s breath marking each penetration of Sam’s dick with punched out _ah ah ahs_.

Dean angles his chin up, just a fraction and Sam, with a his neck flushed red and a smile that belies the aggressiveness of his words and hips, takes the hint and connects their mouths, around Dean’s grunts, in a kiss that Dean thinks will be searing, but actually turns out breathtakingly gentle and affectionate and exactly what Dean needs.

Despite how amazing it feels to be bowed and contorted to Sam’s whims, Dean knows he can’t come like this and he drops his head back to the table and chokes, “Sammy, p-please…”

“Yeah,” Sam murmurs, control clearly slipping in the tone of his voice and the cadence of his dick. “Yeah, I got you.”

Dean’s gotta credit Sam’s ability to maneuver, even in the face of impending orgasm, because somehow Sam manages to flex and position and move them so Dean’s flat on his back again, knees draped around Sam’s biceps, rucking up the jersey a little, and Sam pushes forward until Dean’s almost bent in half, ass lifting off the table, toes locked in a tight coil, and it’s kind of uncanny how Sam can find Dean’s prostate at practically any angle and it happens now with a deliberate arch of Sam’s hips.

It's when Sam snakes his hands up the table a little and wraps them tightly around Dean’s wrists that Dean fully understands how little authority and power he’s got here and the feeling of abdication and surrender and complete abandonment hits him somewhere between his stomach and his chest and even without a hand on his cock, his orgasm sweeps up through his balls and out his pulsing dick and everything spasms and his breath saws out on a broken whine around the repeated words  _oh god oh god oh god_  and he kind of loses all his major senses, except for the feel and sound and smell of Sam.

“Shit, Dean,” Sam sounds shocked. “Shit shit shit…” and his brother tucks his face into Dean’s neck, jersey scraping the skin of Dean’s stomach and his bunched up t-shirt, and it’s only three fumbling thrusts before Sam’s hips jerk forward one last time and quiver against Dean’s ass, cock filling Dean’s fucked open hole, making it warm and wet and slippery.

They both collapse against the table, Sam’s fingers probably leaving red marks on Dean’s wrists that’ll just get him hot again later tonight when he sees them and Dean’s still totally trapped underneath his brother, but he turns his cheek into Sam’s hair, not in any hurry at all to move.

Sam mumbles something that might be a grumbled  _crap_ and Dean hums softly in response.

“I don’t think I can get my legs to work,” Sam says against Dean’s clavicle and Dean can’t help but chuckle.

“Seriously,” Sam continues, not moving an inch. “This is gonna be awkward when someone finds us.”

Dean knows he’s supposed to protest, get grossed out, act all affronted, but he’s got Sam’s hair tickling his nose and Sam’s cock only marginally softening in his ass and God help him, he just really doesn’t care if Sam never stands up again.

"Hello?" Sam murmurs, pulling his head back to make eye contact. "Are you hearing me?"

Dean's eyes are droopy and he's still twisted up, knees almost to his chest, and held down by his brother and he knows his smile is absurdly cute, but there's not a damn thing he can do about it. "I hear you."

Sam responds to Dean's expression by brushing their foreheads together softly and the connection, the touch pools warmth in Dean's chest.

"And you don't care if I don't ever move again?" Sam asks, slotting their lips together perfectly for a light kiss.

"Not really," Dean whispers, floating on a whole lot of released endorphins and joy at having his brother exactly like this.

"How're we gonna eat?" Sam wonders. "Delivery guys won't be able to GPS this place."

Dean chuckles and the motion rocks their hips together, making Dean's ass clench and both of them gasp.

"Fuck," Sam hisses as his dick slips free, bringing what feels like a hell of a lot of come and lube with it. Sam's always been super-sensitive after sex and Dean's kind of amazed Sam didn't pull out before now. His brother stands up with a final kiss to Dean's chin and it's a little ridiculous how hot he looks all sweaty and fucked-out in that damn jersey, hair sticking out all over the place from Dean's hands.

Sam doesn't back away as Dean lowers his legs to the table, joints and tendons cracking as he stretches a little.

Sam arranges his palms against the tops of Dean's knees and it gives Dean a grounding, settled sensation in the pit of his stomach.

"So what's with all the horny recently?" Sam asks.

Later, Dean will probably blame it on coming his brains out or the fact that Sam’s being really tactile, but without thinking Dean whispers, “I like it.”

Sam watches him without speaking, but bobs his chin up in a move so slight, so fast, most people wouldn’t have seen it.

Dean does, though. He always does and he shrugs and answers the silent question. “This,” he twists his head around the table hoping to convey the bunker. He has to avert his eyes, though, when he adds quietly, “Us.”

It’s bad, still lying spread out on the table like he is, naked, with come leaking from his ass and forcing himself to wait to see what Sam does.

His brother reaches out to pull Dean into a sitting position and the change makes Dean a little dizzy and he sways a bit, t-shirt slipping down over his abdomen again. Sam steadies him and asks, “Yeah?”

And that one little word, spoken so breathlessly, so  _hopefully,_  lights Dean up from deep inside and he knows he’s gotta look pretty sappy when he replies  _yeah_  around a smile that’s ridiculously huge, but he has no hope of controlling.

Sam kisses him then, quick, chaste, but really revealing. “Me too.”

Dean breaks contact because of the stupid grin he can't keep from lifting the corners of his mouth.

"So are there any other sports jerseys I should look for?" Sam asks around an equally silly smile. "Found this one in the bargain bin at that thrift store in Duluth. How about football?"

Dean pushes Sam a bit, just enough to be able to slide off the table and take a few seconds to get his legs back under him before shifting around his brother. "Shut up."

"M'being serious," Sam asserts, following Dean as he crosses the library. "That hockey thing was fucking hot."

Dean stops and looks back. "You think?"

"Fuck yeah I do," Sam murmurs, voice tipping into that register that hits Dean down low in his belly -- and it's not helping that Sam trails his middle finger under the t-shirt to the small of Dean's back when he says it.

Dean turns fully and stretches up to kiss Sam and he knows he complains about his brother's height and even comes up with nicknames to point out the difference, but he actually really loves how tall Sam is and the feeling it brings when he rests his triceps against Sam's shoulders and has to lean up on his tiptoes to do this right.

Not that he'd ever say that out loud. Unless he was drunk. Or really horny. Maybe.

The look in Sam's face when Dean drops back on his heels makes Dean worry a bit that his brother might already know, though.

"How about baseball?" Sam asks.

Dean laughs, tracing his fingertips down the length of Sam's jersey as he moves out of his brother's arms and heads to the shower room.

Sam trails behind, listing sports possibilities, each one more farfetched than the next until they're both laughing outright when Dean turns on the hot water.

Does ping pong even have a dress code?

~ end


End file.
